The Uses of Folklore
by Darkover
Summary: Denethor comes to some conclusions about his rival, and a mystery is solved.


8

Title: "The Uses of Folklore"

Author: Darkover

Rating: K

Disclaimer: The characters of "The Lord of the Rings" were created by J.R.R. Tolkien, not by me, and I am only borrowing them as a tribute to his genius. No violation of copyright is intended.

Summary: Denethor comes to some conclusions about his rival, and a mystery is solved.

~ooo0ooo~

"We could have a game of riddles while we wait," Thorongil suggested.

Denethor snorted in reply, not even bothering to conceal his disdain. "I have no use for such frivolity."

He could feel Thorongil's gaze on the back of his head. The Captain said, "I thought you enjoyed anything that requires shrewdness of mind, my lord. The Steward Ecthelion and I have often spent many an evening enjoying riddles and debating other mysteries, such as the differences between Men and Elves."

"My father used to tell me that the trouble with one mystery is that it usually leads to another," Denethor snapped back. "I have always preferred chess. As for folklore and other such childish topics, I leave it to you to entertain my father with such matters."

Any reply the Captain might have given was curtailed when there was a hasty knock on the door, and a servant of the Steward's household, looking pale and anxious, entered the chamber. "My Lord Denethor, Captain Thorongil, the Steward has sent me to summon you both to his chambers at once."

Both young men stood up. Denethor demanded of the servant, "Is there trouble on Gondor's borders?"

The servant swallowed convulsively. "There is trouble _**within**_ Gondor, my lord. Steward Ecthelion is gravely ill with an unknown illness. The doctors fear for his health, and the Steward believes he has not long to live. He demands that you both be summoned to his bedside immediately."

The Steward's Heir and Gondor's greatest captain wasted no time in further conversation. They hastened after the servant, who led them through the now-crowded corridors of the Steward's palace to the bedchamber where Ecthelion lay prostrate with illness. As the young warriors hastened along, there were the usual murmurs as they passed through the assembled onlookers, petitioners, servants, and hangers-on. Those who had not seen the two young men, the Heir and the Captain, together before, were always surprised at the appearance of them both together. Denethor knew what the people were saying, and as usual he hated it; they were commenting on what a close physical resemblance there was between himself and Thorongil. About how they looked enough alike to be brothers.

At that moment, Denethor's sisters were just leaving the Steward's chamber. Seeing the anxiety and sorrow on the faces of his sisters, the redness of their eyes that indicated they had been weeping, Denethor felt his own heart begin to pound. Fearing that his father had taken a turn for the worse, he ignored his sisters' attempts to speak to him, and brushed right past them to enter his father's chamber. Thorongil paused for a moment to comfort them, which was acceptable to Denethor. It meant that he could enter into the Steward's presence first.

Ecthelion, normally so hale and hearty, lay on his bed devoid of strength, his face flushed with fever that all the attempts of the healers had been unable to dispel. The Steward's gray eyes rolled in his son's direction as Denethor approached the bed. "My son," he croaked, and then went off into a fit of coughing. A woman standing near the bed waited patiently until the coughing ceased and the older man had caught his breath, before gently wiping his face with a cool wet cloth, and then helping the Steward drink a bit of water. The older man lay back again, exhausted even from that brief spasm.

Denethor came to the bedside. "I am here, Father."

His father took his hand. Denethor could feel the heat radiating from the older man's skin. Ecthelion clasped his hand, and then was already looking beyond his son, as if expecting someone else to be there. "My boys," he said fretfully. "I want both of my boys. Why is Thorongil not here?"

Denethor felt so flooded with surprise and anger that he dropped his father's hand. Before he could have any further reaction, he heard his rival's voice say; "I am here, my Lord." The Captain in question came up alongside Denethor and the bed, and knelt beside it, taking the older man's hand gently. "I am here," he repeated softly.

"Thorongil," Ecthelion said, and then his feverish gaze traveled to his son—_his __**only **__son, _Denethor thought resentfully. "Denethor." He began to cough wretchedly again.

Thorongil, rising, helped the older man sit up, and cushioned the Steward's convulsing frame against his own body until it stopped. "Easy, my Lord," he soothed, helping the older man to lie down once more.

"My boys, I fear I am dying," Ecthelion gasped. "I suffer from a mysterious illness that has confounded even our best healers. Before the end, I wished to see you both, and to receive your promises that you will both continue to serve Gondor to the best of your abilities."

As he spoke, Thorongil felt the older man's forehead, and took his pulse. "What do you think you're doing?" Denethor demanded of him. "Leave my father be!"

"It is no use, Captain," the woman tending the Steward said sorrowfully. "Whatever ails the Steward is a mystery even the Master Healer has been unable to solve. Would that there was a king yet in Gondor, for 'the hands of a king are the hands of a healer, and so shall the rightful king be known.'"

Ecthelion smiled at her. "Ah, my good Ioreth, but if there were a king in Gondor, then there would be no need for a Steward, would there?" He began to cough again.

"I believe that I can help the Steward," Thorongil said. "Ioreth, have the servants heat a pan of water, and fetch me some athelas while they are doing so, will you?"

"'Athelas?'" she repeated, puzzled.

Denethor said simultaneously, "Don't be a fool, Thorongil. The greatest healing minds in Gondor have been unable to treat my father's illness, and _**you **_believe you can heal him?"

"It is also known as 'kingsfoil,' Mistress," Thorongil said, ignoring the comments of the Steward's Heir completely.

To Denethor's surprise, the woman brightened visibly. "Aye, I know that one, Captain! 'Life to the dying, in the king's hand lying!'"

Denethor's head snapped in her direction. Thorongil said hastily, "Fetch it, Mistress, please!"

As the woman hurried off to fulfill his request, the Captain picked up the damp cloth and began applying it again to the Steward's feverish face. "Try to lie still and quiet, my Lord."

"I fear I shall be still and quiet soon enough," Ecthelion croaked.

Thorongil sang to the Steward as the three men waited. Denethor recognized it not, for the words were in Sindarin. He said nothing, although privately even he admitted that the Captain's singing appeared to relax the older man.

A few minutes later, Ioreth returned bearing a bowl of steaming water, and a handful of herbs. Thorongil's eyes lit up as he saw the latter. He crushed them, breathed upon them, and scattered them over the bowl of water before lowering it to the Steward's face. Both Ioreth and Denethor watched, the former in fascination, the latter in obvious skepticism. Ecthelion breathed the vapors, and after just a few minutes, his skin took on a healthier hue.

Thorongil began to sing again, and again Denethor did not know or understand the Elvish words. After a few minutes, the Captain dipped a clean cloth into the herb-scented water, and used it to bathe Ecthelion's face. Within minutes, the Steward fell into a sleep as pleasant as it was profound.

"The fever is broken," Ioreth said. "Praise be to the Valar!"

"Yes, the Steward will live," Thorongil said. He placed the bowl and the cloth on the table next to the bed, and stood up, swaying. He was pale and appeared exhausted. "Forgive me, I must rest." Turning, he all but stumbled as he left the room.

Denethor's speculative gaze followed him.

Ioreth was beaming. "The Steward is healed, my Lord! Will you tell everyone the wonderful news, or shall I?"

Denethor looked directly at her for the first time since entering the chamber, and something about the stoniness of his gaze made her falter a bit. "Mistress, that rhyme you were quoting earlier, about the hands of a king being the hands of a healer…"

"Oh, yes, my Lord. It is just a bit of rhyme my mother and grandmother used to repeat…"

She continued to chatter on, but Denethor paid no heed. _Thorongil showed up out of nowhere. He speaks little of his background, and has never given the name of his father. He has insinuated himself into my father's affections. He resembles me strongly enough to be mistaken for a relative. Now he has used some herb known as 'kingsfoil' to heal my father, and even this foolish woman speaks of 'the hands of a king being the hands of a healer,' and 'Life to the dying, in the king's hand lying!' Only fools and dead men believe in coincidence. It seems as if the 'mystery' of Captain Thorongil is no mystery at all. _

"So as I was saying, my Lord, it is just a bit of folklore," Ioreth was saying. "And I always heard that your Lordship took no interest in such."

Denethor gazed past her, toward the door by which his rival had exited the bedchamber. "On the contrary, Mistress," he said grimly. "Folklore can solve many a mystery. I believe I shall take a great deal of interest in it from now on."


End file.
